She wrinkled her nose.
“I don’t want that, you know,
peanut butter on my toast.
Just jam.”
Her right shoulder lifted to meet her ear in a half-way shrug.
“And, you know, don’t give me so many, you know,
little pieces like before.”
Hands raised palm-side up.
Surely I can get it right this time.
How hard can it be?
You know?
She couldn’t push the second half of her frozen yogurt tube up toward the opening.
“Can you do me a favourite, Daddy?” she asked, walking across the backyard.
“Sure, Irene, I can do you a favour. Do you need me to push that up for you?”
She stopped dead in her tracks and looked at him.
“You mean to say favourite.”
* * *
Colum on soccer:
“We used to be the Cruellers,
But now we’re the Poo-lers.
We always used to win every game,
But now we lose.
So we’re the POO-lers!”
Eating hot dogs and fries at the beach,
Ed told the one about how a seagull once plucked a cheeseburger out of his brother’s hand.
Irene looked around.
“Do you mean that one, Daddy?”
She pointed at the nearest gull.
“Well, maybe it was that one,” he said.
“Do you mean Harry?”
And thus a seagull got his name.